


Dead Man's Bells

by chiiyo86



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon - Manga, Future Fic, Gen, Murder, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiiyo86/pseuds/chiiyo86
Summary: Winston Treadway will never forget the evening his master was invited to Lord Phantomhive's townhouse.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Here's a little treat with an adult Ciel who still has his soul! It was a lot of fun to write. Hope you enjoy it. :)

“What do you suppose that insolent brat wants with me, Treadway?” Lord Farewell asked. 

From his master’s imperious tone, Winston Treadway knew that he needed not answer the question. Lord Farewell was talking to himself more than he was talking to his servant, so Treadway looked instead out the window of their carriage at the dirty London streets. Strips of grimy fog hid most of the spectacle from them, and it sometimes looked like they were floating amidst a stormy cloud that occasionally cleared away, revealing the ghastly silhouette of some crippled beggar. The lights from the street lamps gave the fog a murky yellow glow. Treadway contained a shiver and lifted the collar of his coat; he’d been feeling uneasy all evening, unable to shake a persistent sense of dread.

“I don’t understand how he isn’t dead already. You’d recommended Halpine yourself.” Lord Farewell’s beady eyes looked over to Treadway, hard as glass in his displeasure. “The man has simply vanished! You don’t happen to know where he might have gone, do you, Treadway?”

“I have no idea, my lord. Haven’t heard of him since then, I swear to you, my lord. Even his lady friend doesn’t know where he is.”

Lord Farewell looked doubtful, and Treadway braced himself for a fit of full-blown anger. Curse Halpine and his disappearing act. Treadway had thought the man to be reliable, but fact was that his victim was still alive and Halpine had dropped off the face of the earth, meaning that _Treadway_ was the one facing the brunt of his master’s volatile temper.

Surprisingly, though, Lord Farewell looked away and mumbled under his breath, “I’m certain the brat had something to do with this. How does he—it’s like he has the luck of the devil!”

Lord Farewell’s meaty hand disappeared inside the folds of his clothing and came back with a bottle containing little brown pellets. He dropped some into his palm and swallowed them dry. 

Treadway frowned. “I thought you were supposed to go easy on them,” he said.

“Are you a doctor, now, Treadway? Are you? I don’t think so!” Lord Farewell snapped. It was chilly inside the carriage, but Lord Farewell still had to dab his red sweaty face with a handkerchief. “I’d advise you to keep your comments to yourself.”

Treadway knew when to shut up. This Halpine business seemed to really have soured the master towards him, so he didn’t say another word until they’d reached their destination, which was a luxurious townhouse on the Strand.

A man dressed in black opened when they knocked. He was very handsome, but wore his hair unusually long. His smile was perfectly hospitable, but when his dark eyes slid over to him Treadway felt as cold as if he’d been dropped into icy water.

“Welcome, Lord Farewell,” the man said. “If you will follow me into the parlour, my master will be with you shortly.”

Lord Farewell huffed. “I certainly hope so,” he said, sounding angry, but he clutched his cane with a nervousness that didn’t escape Treadway. His master was uneasy too, and Treadway reflexively felt for the gun he kept under his coat. He had a feeling that he might need it tonight.

The parlour contained a marble-topped mahogany table, as well as two large rosewood sofas and a few smaller chairs. The walls were covered in blue damask, the same colour as the chairs and sofas’ upholstery. Lord Farewell eyed his surroundings with distaste, as if everything in the room down to the gilded clock on the chimney mantel were an attack on his person.

“Look at this place, Treadway,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice in case their host was nearby. “Do you think the brat would be able to keep this house on top of his mansion if it weren’t for Her Majesty’s protection? Business genius, they call him. Ha! His only genius is a lucky birth. If I were—”

The door opened, and Lord Farewell had enough good sense not to pursue this trail of thought. Treadway knew the young man who entered to be in his early twenties, but he was slim and had delicate features that made him seem no older than his teens. The eye-patch covering his right eye marred the general loveliness of his face, giving him an air of severity that was incongruous in someone so young.

“Lord Farewell,” the young man said. His tone was pleasant, but his lone blue eye shone like polished ice. “Thank you for responding to my invitation. I am Ciel Phantomhive.”

“I know who you are,” Lord Farewell said, sounding barely any more polite than when he’d privately called the young lord a ‘brat.’ “As for your invitation, don’t make me laugh. You know I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t forced my hand by keeping me from accessing my warehouses. What do you want, Phantomhive? Be quick about it.”

Lord Phantomhive laughed shortly. “Down to business, I see. I can’t say that I mind, as I’m not one for pleasantries either. But you will of course share a cup of tea with me. I know you never eat outside of your home, but tea always makes unpleasant conversations easier.”

He didn’t wait for Lord Farewell’s agreement before he called, “Sebastian!” The servant in black came in with a trolley, and proceeded to serve tea with quiet efficiency. 

Lord Farewell, as was his paranoid way, didn’t drink from his cup until he’d seen Lord Phantomhive do it before him. Treadway wasn’t offered anything, but he hadn’t expected to. He didn’t feel like Lord Phantomhive was dismissing him out of hand, though, the way most lord types did. He saw that cold blue eye rest on him for a moment, silently assessing. 

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought my butler with me,” Lord Farewell said, gesturing in Treadway’s direction. 

He’d talked in a way that made it clear he didn’t give a damn whether Lord Phantomhive minded or not. Most people would have been offended, but the young lord smiled in what looked like genuine amusement. 

“As long as you don’t mind the presence of Sebastian, my own butler,” he said.

The butler in question, Sebastian, smiled and bowed slightly at the enunciation of his name. Lord Farewell’s mouth pursed in vexation, but he wasn’t in a position to protest. He took another sip of his tea before he made any reply.

“Get to the point, Phantomhive,” he said. “What’s hiding behind your call?”

“I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to your man, and why he didn’t do what you paid him for. I have the regret to inform you of Albert Halpine’s untimely demise.”

Lord Farewell’s hand shook and he drank more tea, but his voice was even when he said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please, Lord Farewell. Here I thought we were having an earnest discussion. In truth, I don’t mind that you want me dead. Others have tried—I don’t take it personally anymore. My concerns are Her Majesty’s concerns, as you know.”

Lord Farewell narrowed his eyes. “Of course, I know, you dog. But I don’t know what Her Majesty has to do with my presence here.”

Lord Phantomhive smiled over the rim of his cup of tea. “You’re Her Majesty’s cousin, aren’t you, Lord Farewell? You know about her failing health.”

“Of course I do.”

“You will be glad to hear that she’s doing better, as much as is possible for a person of her age.”

Lord Farewell was clutching the pocket of his coat, where Treadway knew he kept his heart medicine. It meant his master was losing control of the conversation, and that Treadway needed to be on his guards. Lord Farewell had introduced him as his butler, but in reality Treadway was more of a glorified bodyguard, and his job was to protect his master from the numerous enemies his ambition had earned him. 

“I will speak plainly even if you won’t,” Lord Phantomhive went on. “I know about your attempt on Her Majesty’s life. I know you hope for Prince Edward’s ascension to the throne. You think you will be able to use the things you know about His Highness’ dissolute private life as leverage to secure a favoured position for yourself. Namely, the position I currently occupy.” Lord Phantomhive’s head tilted as he rested his cheek on his cupped hand. “You call me a dog, Farewell, but you seem to eye the doghouse with envy.”

“You little—this is preposterous! I won’t stay here one more minute and listen to you sprouting your filthy lies.” Lord Farewell stood up, careless of the cup of tea that rolled from his lap and bounced on the floor. It was empty, so at least the content didn’t spill on the expensive-looking carpet. “Her Majesty will hear of this! Don’t think your status will protect you, Phantomhive. You may be Her Majesty’s lapdog, but _I_ am kin, and—”

The end of Lord Farewell’s sentence was lost to a bout of choking. Treadway thought at first that his master’s anger was getting to him, as he was red in the face and veins bulged on his forehead. But then Lord Farewell clutched at his chest and wavered on his feet, and Treadway knew something bad was happening. Was Lord Farewell’s tired heart finally giving out?

“Her Majesty already knows of your treachery, Lord Farewell. Your blood relation to her only protects you in the sense that she wishes for you to be dealt with as unobtrusively as possible in order to avoid scandal, which means that I’m the best suited to take care of the matter.”

“How—how did you manage—” Lord Farewell stuttered. He was blinking quickly as though he needed to clear his vision.

Lord Phantomhive handed the butler Sebastian his cup of tea and retrieved something from his pocket. It looked like a bell-shaped purple flower—Treadway didn’t understand its meaning at first, but Lord Farewell obviously did.

“ _No_.”

“You recognize this flower, don’t you?” Lord Phantomhive said, rolling the flower between his fingers. “ _Digitalis purpurea_ , commonly known as foxglove. It has a list of other lovely names, such as ‘witche’s gloves’ or ‘dead man’s bells.’ I rather like the latter one myself. Can you hear the bells toll, Farewell?”

“But—” Lord Farewell caught himself on the arm of the sofa he had been sitting on. When Treadway tried to help him sit back down his hands were slapped away. “This is impossible… The tea—you drank it too.”

“Of course I did. I knew—” Lord Phantomhive paused, as though he were short of breath. Treadway noticed then that the young man was unnaturally pale and that sweat clung to his brow. “I knew you wouldn’t drink if I didn’t. But I didn’t drink as much as you did, and, more importantly, _I_ don’t abuse medicine that contains it on a daily basis. How unfortunate that you would overdose on your own heart medicine.”

Lord Farewell’s face was the picture of appalled betrayal. He took the bottle of his medicine from his pocket and looked at it, eyes moving quickly as he read the inscription on the label over and over again: _To be taken twice or thrice daily, with a little water after food. To be taken with great Caution_. Then he fell over, crumpling to the floor, and to see his master down finally propelled Treadway into action.

He pawed for his gun, but he didn’t have the time to retrieve it. A dark form blurred across the room and his weapon was snatched from his hands, while himself was slammed into the wall, an arm pressed against his throat. The butler smiled at him, his expression more sinister than genial now. His eyes were—God, his eyes were red and his pupils had narrowed to slits. Unable to stand the sight Treadway looked over the butler’s shoulder to Lord Phantomhive, who stood up from his chair, looking a little unsteady.

“My lord?” Sebastian said, even though he had his back on his master.

“I’m all right. Let’s deal with this before we worry about me.”

He walked up to Treadway and Sebastian, barely gracing Lord Farewell with a glance when he passed him lying on the floor.

“Your master was an idiot,” he told Treadway. “But you seem to be an intelligent man. If necessary, we can make you disappear as easily as Halpine, but I would rather like to avoid that. We don’t need to make Lord Farewell’s tragic death look more suspicious.”

Sweat poured down Treadway’s face and his heart hammered in his chest. He’d been in tight spots before but had never had such a clear sense that he was looking Death right in the face. It wasn’t just the butler with the red eyes—oh God, _oh God_ —but also the frail young man who was eyeing him up and down, deciding on his fate.

“ _Who_ are you?” Treadway wheezed out.

“I am Earl Ciel Phantomhive, Her Majesty’s watchdog. But I assume it’s my butler you’re really wondering about.”

It was getting darker in the room. The light from the candelabrums seemed dimmer, and the shadows lurking in the corners more impenetrable. Sebastian’s face was closer to him all of a sudden and it was—changing, somehow, his teeth looking too long and too sharp and his eyes gleaming a deep red, akin to the colour of blood. Treadway tried to turn his head but then he caught sight of shadows slithering across the walls, moving like living things. The shadows swirled around the dark butler as if they were answering his call.

“I am not of this world,” Sebastian said. “As you might have guessed. I am the very fabric your nightmares are made of.”

Treadway’s legs were shaking so hard they would probably have buckled under his weight if it hadn’t been for Sebastian holding him propped against the wall. Dimly, he heard Lord Phantomhive snort.

“Could you sound more full of yourself?” the young man said wryly.

“My apologies, master. I was merely trying to impress upon our guest how serious his predicament is. But I should probably leave it to your legendary wits.”

“You’re growing more insolent by the day, demon. Hunger must be making you impatient.”

“Human life lasts but an instant in my eyes. I assure you I can wait a little longer.”

 _Demon?_ Treadway realized he’d uttered the word in a whimper when Lord Phantomhive said, “Here lies the answer to your question, Mr Treadway. You understand your situation now, I am sure. If you breathe a word of what has happened here tonight, Sebastian _will_ find you. I suggest you leave London, or even the country.”

“I won’t say anything, my lord, I swear it on my mother’s grave. You won’t hear from me, I will disappear, I won’t tell a word, but please, please, _please_ , let me go. Please, I’m begging you.”

“Does he sound sufficiently impressed to you, Sebastian?”

“This is your call, master, as always.”

“Let him go. I think he understands.”

When the butler stepped away Treadway tumbled to his knees, but he got back up on his feet as quickly as he could. They let him stumble his way out of the house, and once he was in the street, breathing in the damp cold air, he started running and didn’t stop for a long time. 

_The devil’s luck_ , Lord Farewell had said. If only he’d known just how right he was.


End file.
